


Kissogram for Sherlock Holmes

by Bringing_Reichen_Back



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs, Bored Moriarty, Confused Sherlock, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Modern pent up sexual tension, Nipple Play, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Sexuality, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock's Mind Palace, kissogram, sherlock loves Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bringing_Reichen_Back/pseuds/Bringing_Reichen_Back
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stood there for a moment, expecting a response. It was probably Lestrade pulling one of his little 'drugs bust' episodes that he seemed to favour so much.</p><p>"Yes?" The detective repeated irritably.</p><p>The policeman lifted a hand to his hat and tilted it back, removing the shadow from his face. Sherlock froze.</p><p>"Kissogram for Sherlock Holmes," James Moriarty grinned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bored

**Author's Note:**

> (Set post pool scene after the beginning of 'A scandal in Belgravia' - S2E1)

Sherlock Holmes was bored. He was lounging on the sofa with his left arm dangling to the side. Craning his neck up to try and reach a more comfortable position, he steepled his fingers under his chin in a typical 'I'm thinking' pose. No matter how hard the detective tried to concentrate on entering his 'mind palace', he just couldn't seem to focus. Which annoyed him to a great extent, as focusing on things nobody else could was something Sherlock was renowned for.  
He turned his attention to the kitchen. Tools and various utensils were scattered haphazardly across the table, and the Bunsen burner was still flickering orange but there was no need for it to be turned off for now.

His cigarettes were in the bedroom and he knew that Mrs Hudson wouldn't fetch them for him. Sherlock needed something, anything to keep himself occupied.

Wrapping his silk dressing gown tighter around his shoulders, the detective pulled up his knees into his body and pouted ever so slightly. Sherlock was, although he wouldn't admit it, sulking. John had gone out on another stupid date with yet another girlfriend. Sherlock just didn't understand it. John had showered, dressed smartly, and was taking his date to a restaurant- another relationship bound to end badly, he thought. After all, it was hardly his fault that he hadn't always gotten along with some of John's lady-friends; they were far too obnoxious for his liking.  
'Sentiment,' as his brother Mycroft would always lecture him, ' Is a chemical defect found on the losing side.'  
So far, this hasn't proved to be wrong, therefore Sherlock kept to it- as rare as it was for him to listen to Mycroft.

The detective closed his eyes, mind wandering back to the first time he met 'Jim from I.T'. Oh, how Moriarty had tricked him. The gay approach had been very convincing, and enough to slightly grab Sherlocks interest. Obviously he never showed it, but he sensed something below the bumbling exterior of the office worker- never quite placing his finger on it. Until the pool at midnight.  
As soon as Jim Moriarty walked through those doors, he started to flirt with Sherlock. In all honesty, the detective was flustered by it. By the calm confidence that positively radiated from the man.  
The consulting detective had finally found someone who was a match for him, someone who happened to be a consulting criminal. Sherlock found that rather amusing, like they were two heads of a coin.  
However, at the same time, he was slightly scared of Moriarty. Jim had shown what he could do by killing dozens of people and nearly killing John himself. Most of all, Sherlock was afraid of the fact that there was something about James Moriarty that he liked, something he wanted to see more of; this confused him.  
After Jim had left the pool, excoriating someone down the phone, Sherlock was shaken. He had no idea what was happening to him- occasionally Moriarty would just appear in his mind palace, smirking and flirting.

Sherlock had never been confused like this before, he didn't know of the feeling that he was experiencing. He had never questioned himself, never doubted himself until now. Such fear from the Detective was unheard of and he hated his feeling of weakness.

He pushed all thoughts of the criminal from his mind, and started idly picking at the hem on his pyjama bottoms. Flicking his eyes back over to the kitchen table, he saw that the Bunsen burner had gone out, and he rolled his eyes at the relief of not having to walk over and turn it off.

******

Sherlock had just slipped back into a state of calm when the doorbell rang.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, furrowing his brow in annoyance. "MRS HUDSON!"

He figured that, as it wasn't the usual client ring, it wasn't his problem to answer the door. Still silence a few moments later, and he couldn't hear Mrs Hudson opening the lock to let anyone in. This was followed by another two rings and Sherlock, huffing, made his way downstairs to open the door. Where on earth was Mrs Hudson? It was half 6 in the evening, she couldn't possibly be anywhere else.

The detective reached the door, braced himself for the cold, and swung it open. An autumn breeze hit him immediately- he could see the sun just starting to set, casting an ominous looking shadow across the road from behind the opposite houses. Looking down at the doorstep, he saw a shabby looking policeman. Well, shabby for an officer of the law. But he was smartly dressed for any other person, with a short sleeved white top, jacket with all the standard issue police items, black shoes and an ordinary police cap that shadowed his face as he kept his eyes on the floor. It still didn't strike Sherlock as a normal police outfit, but he was too peeved to question it.

"Yes? Can I help you?" He asked the officer, not at politely as he could have.  
'My, it is cold out' he thought, shuffling on his bare feet. Normally, wearing his pyjamas and dressing gown in front of people wouldn't faze him at all, as he was usually far too deep in thought to worry about it. Tonight, however, it was cold, and he really wasn't in the mood for messing about outside. He coughed a little, clearing his throat to get the officer's attention.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, expecting a response. It was probably just Lestrade sending his goons and pulling one of his little 'drugs bust' episodes he seemed to favour so much.

"Yes?" The detective repeated irritably.

The policeman lifted a hand to his hat and tilted it back, removing the shadows from his face. Sherlock froze.

"Kissogram for Sherlock Holmes," James Moriarty grinned.


	2. Music for Moriarty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty' s Irish lilt made him weak. Sherlock tried to stutter a response but Jim's mouth against his neck made him breathless. The criminal began to stroke slowly, carefully up the detectives arm.
> 
> "Play me like you do the violin, Sherlock. Make me dance."

"Well?" Jim asked expectantly after what seemed like hours of Sherlock staring at him. "Aren't you going to invite me in, my dear?"

The soothing ring to Moriarty's voice did nothing to calm Sherlock, but the detective shuffled aside with a wary expression on his face, letting Moriarty walk into the hallway of 221B.

"Nice place, Sherly- even better when you're here," Jim flashed Sherlock a winning smile, and made his way into the sitting room of his own accord. Sherlock flipped the catch on the lock behind him and followed the criminal.

"Where's Mrs Hudson?" He said, ignoring James' innocent look. 

Moriarty took in the surroundings, inspecting the mantelpiece closely before wandering over to a chair and removing his police jacket and hat. Sherlock was stood in the doorway, defensively, trying to appear more comfortable with having a world class criminal in his flat than he actually was. He repeated his question.

"Oh, do stop worrying," Jim turned to face Sherlock, a ghost of a smirk playing his mouth. "I have arranged for her to be... out for our little meeting. She is safe."

Relief flickered in Sherlock's eyes, as well as something else. He couldn't help but notice that Moriarty had chosen very specific clothes for today. His jeans were firm around him and his white t-shirt, the one he had worn when he played 'Jim from I.T', left little to the imagination.  
Sherlock suddenly felt out of place in his ragged pyjamas and dressing gown. 

"You're awfully quiet today. Not at all like when we met at the swimming pool. I surprised you then..." Jim's caught Sherlock's gaze roaming his chest and his eyes sparkled a little brighter. His choice of attire had obviously captured the detectives attention, which was the desired effect. "... and I have surprised you now."

Sherlock's head snapped up when Moriarty finished talking, wondering why he had zoned out- he always pays attention to every detail. Every twitch of Jim's neck, every rise and fall of his chest, every curve...  
James grinned as Sherlock's pale face slowly flushed and he looked away.

"Tea?" The detective offered, turning into the kitchen and heading for the kettle.

"One sugar, please."

Sherlock tilted his head quizzically. 

"I like to stay sweet," James answered. Sherlock could virtually hear the smile in his voice.

He filled up the kettle and flicked it on, preparing two mugs for the drink. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Moriarty with his eyes closed, moving and fluttering his fingers as if he was playing the piano. Sherlock's eyes followed Jim's fingers, their ups and downs, their talent.  
'James Moriarty is in my flat' he told himself, 'a world class criminal. THE world class criminal. And you, Mr Holmes are admiring him- and not his way of thinking.'  
He was so confused. Sherlock had said to John himself; 'Not my area.' When he said that he had meant dating, relationships - women and men.  
There was nothing extraordinary about Moriarty. Not to anyone other than Sherlock. 'Average height, average voice, could easily become lost in a crowd. Everything about him is average...apart from his mind', Sherlock reasoned. It was like two warring parties inside the detectives head. One saying that, rightly, Moriarty is a dangerous psychopath that Sherlock should defeat- the sooner the better. The other saying that Moriarty and Sherlock are so alike, there's nobody like them, nobody to ever understand them but each other.

'Moriarty and Sherlock,' he thought, 'Jim and Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock...'

"Sherlock!" James waved a hand in front of his face, barely containing his laughter.  
"Back to earth, if you please."

Sherlock coughed, embarrassed, and poured the drinks before handing one to Moriarty.

Jim turned his attention to the kitchen table, still littered with tools and a few minor body parts.

"Experimenting?"

"Yes."

"On..."

"That's between me and George."

"George? Are you cheating on me?" The criminals eyes glinted.

Sherlock gestured to an eyeball and three fingers next to the Bunsen burner.

"Ah, I see," Moriarty sauntered back into the living room.

The detective glided after him, a few paces behind.

"Cheating on you?" He tried to sound amused but there was a softness to his voice that suggested he was genuinely curious. Moriarty didn't miss it.

"I think, Sherlock, that there may be some very new, very different emotions circling in your head at the moment. Confusing, isn't it?" He said, focusing on his nemesis' violin on the sofa. He didn't need to look at Sherlock to know he was right.

"I... uh-" he started, but was cut off.

"Play the violin for me?" Jim requested in a completely different tone of voice, setting down his mug of tea on the living room table. 

Sherlock brushed past Moriarty and picked up the instrument. Spinning round, he felt James' eyes on him, but he felt less conscious about being in his pyjamas now. His gaze flicked to a chair, letting Jim know he could sit down, but the criminal shook his head and remained standing. Sherlock inhaled deeply, then started to play. 

It was a beautiful sound- so heartfelt. Moriarty could hear that Sherlock was putting so many years of locked up and hidden emotion into the piece. Sherlock's eyes were closed tightly as he let his heart pour out in the form of music, and Jim's were misted over in deep thought. It hit a crescendo which suddenly snapped him back to reality. James stared at Sherlock who had now moved on to a slower piece. The detectives eyebrows were furrowed as he remembered all of the dark times in his life- the death of his dog, Redbeard, and the worry if losing his best friend, John. Finally, Sherlock moved to a fast paced, angry sounding tune. Moriarty knew it was about him. It was full of changes in speed, pitch, signifying the detectives mixed emotions towards him. He picked out hate for threatening Sherlock's friends, fear of the criminal himself and a softer undertone for the way that Sherlock and Moriarty were so alike. Sherlock finished on a dark note, lifting his head unabashedly to a slowly applauding Jim. 

It seemed like forever before either of them spoke again.

"You have a beautiful mind, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed. His throat was dry suddenly. James Moriarty had complimented him. Sincerely- no jokes, no sarcasm, no flirting.  
Jim said that Sherlock's mind- all that he is- was beautiful.

It was too much, and the detective collapsed on the sofa, shaking slightly.

"Sit," Sherlock gestured to an armchair across the room- and was caught by surprise when Moriarty joined him on the sofa. His eyes must have widened, Sherlock noted, because the criminal smirked at him as he stared intently, eyes not leaving the detectives. 

Their knees were touching, but neither of them wanted to move. Jim had a new glint in his eyes- hungry, powerful- and he leaned closer to Sherlock, testing the waters.  
From this short distance, Sherlock could see every detail of Moriarty's face, but couldn't tear himself away. He was moving closer. The criminal could see the small brown fleck in the detectives blue eyes. Moriarty rested his hand on Sherlock's.  
It was warm skin on cold skin, but that's as much as Sherlock could remember-everything was such a blur except Jim. Jim and only Jim.

Moriarty closed the distance between them, planting his mouth on Sherlock's neck. He gasped at the contact, then shuddered when James started moving his lips, taking in the musky scent of the detective. Sherlock's mind temporarily went blank, and his eyes fluttered and he moaned softly as Jim deepened the kiss on his neck. The moan was barely audible, but it was just enough to spark the criminal. 

"Mmm, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered.

Moriarty's Irish lilt made him weak. Sherlock tried to stutter a response but Jim's mouth against his neck made him breathless. The criminal began to stroke slowly, carefully up the detectives arm.

"Play me like you do the violin, Sherlock. Make me dance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry I took a while to update, guys. Once again, thanks for reading!)


	3. Just a game?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Until the next time. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes- JM x'

Moriarty's voice washed over Sherlock like ice water and brought him back to reality. He panicked and lashed out, tipping Jim off the sofa and onto the floor face up, that ridiculously tight shirt hugging his figure. 

Sherlock gulped, eyes wide and staring wildly at Jim, who's face was scrunched up from the sudden impact.

"What..." the detective paused and caught his breath, "...did you do to me?"

Moriarty quickly recovered from his uncomfortable position on the floor and propped himself up on his elbows, chuckling in earnest as Sherlock frantically inspected his mug of tea.

"I didn't drug you, my dear, if that's what you're wondering," he replied coolly.

'What? No, he's lying,' Sherlock told himself. Holding his wrist in his right hand, he checked his pulse. Fast. 'It's because he drugged me. Not because of anything else. N-not because I enjoyed it. I didn't. He's a maniac.'

Jim replied exactly on cue, almost as if he could hear what was going on inside the detectives head.

"Don't lie to yourself, Sherly. You enjoyed it. But you're scared. Scared of letting go, of losing."

Sherlock looked indignantly down at the criminal; his expression carried sight fear. A few seconds later the words clicked, and he grimaced at the pet name James had used.

"This isn't a game, Moriarty," his voice became deeper, more dangerous, and Jim had to admit he liked it.

The criminal gazed sincerely up at Sherlock, "Then why are you afraid? I'm right, you know I am. So..."  
He pushed himself back up to his knees in front of the detective and placed his hands on Sherlock's thighs. He flinched and Jim hushed him, not breaking eye contact.  
"... let me teach you to not be scared."

Sherlock weighed his options. He could tell Moriarty to get out now, and push him away- therefore forcing them to remain distant enemies. Or he could win. He could beat James at his own game, making him lose all self control and...

Oh.

Before he had a chance to reply, Jim had softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's and was murmuring against them. It was far too quiet for the detective to hear, but the feel of the criminals mouth against his own was like fireworks in his head, blocking his hearing and whiting his vision. Sherlock closed his lips around Jim's thin ones and let his eyes drift shut.

Moriarty was stood confidently in a hallway of his mind palace, wearing the same fitted attire as he was currently.  
"Shutting your eyes won't shut me out, my dear," he drawled. 

A muffled 'mmph' from Jim was what made Sherlock's eyes flutter open again. Moriarty's hands were still on his thighs and Sherlock realised that he had no idea what to do with his. Jim noticed that he had stopped kissing so he withdrew, looking confused. The detective knotted his fingers together in his lap and bit his lip. The criminal smiled- genuinely- and raised his hands to Sherlock's shoulders, slowly pushing him back into the sofa. 

Sherlock let himself be manipulated and watched as Jim raised himself from his knees, stood up and leaned forward, straddling Sherlock's lap. He placed his hands on Sherlock's, and brought them to rest gently on his waist, before moving his own to the man's neck, thumbs cupping his jaw.

They resumed kissing, slowly to start off with, Jim's tongue brushing against Sherlock's lower lip, requesting entrance. The detective granted it and soon Moriarty was tentatively exploring Sherlock's mouth with his own. Their tongues ran together and each time they did Sherlock felt shocks run through his entire body. He had once said to John that his mind was like a hard drive and, currently, it seemed to be short circuiting. He ran his tongue over Jim's, experimenting, memorizing every little detail of the criminals mouth. 

Not used to this kind of treatment, Sherlock gasped and parted his perfect lips a little wider, which Jim didn't hesitate to take advantage of. In the back of his mind, the detective dully wondered if this was still a game; if it was, Moriarty was likely determined to win. So Sherlock upped his own game.

He pushed back against Jim's mouth hard, kissing everything he could. As soon as the consulting criminal opened his eyes and mouth in shock, Sherlock growled and took Jim's lip between his teeth, biting the flesh softly. Unsurprisingly, the first moan came from James Moriarty, who leaned into Sherlock, letting their noses touch. The detective released Jim's lip, letting it ping back before looking up at him with dilated pupils. The other genius pointed this out to him. 

"So are yours," Sherlock was breathing heavier than normal, more than slightly overwhelmed.

Passionately, their mouths met again, crashing together harder this time. Jim smiled and deepened the kiss, glad to see that Sherlock was fighting for dominance too. What he didn't know was that part of Sherlock still thought it was a game, and was desperately trying to make Jim lose. Both of them were panting into each other's mouths now, and they broke apart, gulping down air. 

Sherlock chuckled and exhaled in disbelief as Moriarty leaned in. However, while he thought there was yet another kiss on the way, Jim diverted his attention to Sherlock's pale neck, and started to press his lips to the same spot as before. He nuzzled the detective and started to kiss and groan gently into his neck, making Sherlock's lips fall open into a perfect 'O' shape. 

"So beautiful," Jim murmured against him, "I want to make bruises all over that pretty neck of yours, hmm?"

The only response Sherlock was capable of giving at that moment was a stifled gasp as Jim licked a stripe up his throat, settling at his jawbone and sucking hard. Whispering, Moriarty counted every lovebite on Sherlock as he made them.

"One." Just below the left ear.

"Two." On the right side of his neck.

"Three." Above the collarbone.

Needless to say, Sherlock was breathing very heavily now, letting out a wine for every bruise Jim left on him. James waited until the whimpers had died down while he kissed and lapped at him. Then, unexpectedly, he bit down hard on Sherlock's neck, earning a cross between a yelp and a moan from the detective.

"Shh... you're still scared. I can feel it." Moriarty's velvety tone fell on Sherlock's ears and he listened, refusing to let his guard down completely.  
"You liked me biting you, bruising you, because you like the pain. You know how to deal with pain."

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut at the thought of losing his friend, the memories of how empty he felt when Redbeard died.

"But pleasure," Jim traced Sherlock's jaw gently, "is something you don't know- you never have known- and you're scared of succumbing to it. Losing your clarity. Sherlock..."

The detective locked eyes with Moriarty, blue staring at brown defiantly. 

"...you can lose yourself with me."

Sherlock's eyes softened and he kissed Jim, not completely open to him, but more so than before. 

Jim pushed down the silken dressing gown from Sherlock's arms, exposing his shoulders. The criminal ran his mouth and tongue over every piece of skin he could reach, raising his head every now and then to kiss Sherlock on his full and flushed lips. Hurriedly, he clawed at Sherlock's back trying to rid him completely of the dressing gown. No sooner had he done this, Sherlock unwrapped his arms from Jim's waist and started to run his hands all over his chest. The material of Moriarty's shirt was so thin that Sherlock could feel every contour of Jim beneath his hands.

The criminal really was being criminal, Sherlock thought, as James explored his neck and shoulders with his tongue, biting and sucking at the skin. Sherlock deftly moved his fingers from low on Jims back round to the front, dancing up his body until he found Jim's nipples, which were prominent against his shirt. Sherlock pulled sharply on them, and Jim let out a moan on the top of Sherlock's chest that sent vibrations through him.

He still wasn't sure about this. Of course he was enjoying this, but he didn't want to lose control. Sherlock's mind wandered to what would happen if he did lose control. Would it really be that bad? He was torn from his thoughts as Jim scrabbled for the end of Sherlock's top. He found it soon enough, and took his swollen lips off of the detectives neck long enough to give him a cheeky smile, that couldn't help but be returned. 

Now the dressing gown was lying crumpled on the floor, and Sherlock's top soon followed it. Jim leaned back- still straddling Sherlock- and took everything in. He inhaled deeply and smiled, as if admiring a piece of fine art; in his eyes he was. But he was also admiring so much more than that. He was looking at Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant consulting detective who was sat underneath him, shaking at his touch.

Jim let out a barely audible moan at the sight of Sherlock. His bare chest with a dusting of light chest hair.  
He moved his hands over the taut skin, trying to map out everything with his fingers.

Sherlock needed to see more of Jim, so he peeled of the tight shirt and let his eyes and hands roam. Pressing a palm to Jim's chest, he could feel the heartbeat, fast paced- much like this 'meeting' was becoming. Their lips joined together like two puzzle pieces made for each other and Sherlock's fingers quickly found Jim's nipples again. He circled the buds with his fingernails and then dug them in. The criminal breathed out heavily.

"Sh-sher..." 

Sherlock didn't show any mercy, and lightly scraped his nails across the hard buds on Jim's chest, making the man moan into Sherlock's mouth, and his stomach hollow.  
Both of their hearts beat fast as one, they were sweating, their pupils were dilated and...  
They looked down.  
Ah.  
Of course the most obvious sign of arousal.

Jim was the first one to register what was happening, and smirked at the detectives frown as he ground his hips down into Sherlock's. Sherlock's blue eyes were wide and he stretched his bruised neck back into the sofa to let out a deep, animalistic moan. Moriarty took that opportunity to latch himself onto one of Sherlock's nipples, left hand pulling at the other.

"Lose..." He sucked and nibbled, watching the bud get smaller, "...yourself"

Sherlock thought that was a wonderful idea. He let go of all his inhibitions and groaned shamelessly as he intertwined his fingers in Jim's hair.

"Y-you," he tried to start, but Jim's lips on his chest felt so good. He tried again.

"You grew out y-your hair since the p-pool," Sherlock managed to stutter, "Is that because you... ngh," he bucked up and moaned just as Jim pushed his clothed hips down.  
"Is that because you wanted m-me to pull o-on it?" 

Jim grinned wolfishly.

At the pool, Moriarty also said that he would burn Sherlock, and if that wasn't what was happening, then nothing was. Because Sherlock's skin felt like it was on fire under Jim's touch. His name was like a constant mantra on his lips, his only vocabulary reduced to 'Jim...Jim...Jim...' by the criminal.

"Let's get rid of this, shall we?" Moriarty breathed heavily, pinging the elastic of Sherlock's pyjamas. All Sherlock did in response was moan. He was totally compliant to James Moriarty now, as long as just didn't stop with his fantastic mouth.

"Sherlock?"

The detective used all his remaining strength to lift his head and look Moriarty in the eyes. But Jim had his eyes wide open and alert now.

"Sherlock? Are you there?" 

It was John. Oh God. 

Jim clambered off Sherlock's lap, picked up his top and looked at the detective worriedly, who was miming to go through the bedroom.  
Moriarty had just run through the door leaving enough time for Sherlock to grab his top and dressing gown and pile it on himself, lying on the sofa with his eyes half closed and coughing.

John walked in and stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock lying there, lethargic and sweating.

"Well wasn't that a date and a half- Sherlock are you alright?"

The detective was well aware of how he must look. 

"Yes, John, I," he feigned a few coughs, "am not feeling myself at the moment."

"Oh, right, well...um," John looked the genius up and down suspiciously, wondering if there was any drugs that he'd missed when he was searching the other day.

"Why are there two mugs on the table?" He asked, distracted.

"Made you a cup of tea." Sherlock said bluntly.

"They're empty."

"I drank them."

"Both of them?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "I was thirsty."

"And the police outfit?"

"What about it? It's just an experiment."

"Oh. Do you need anything?" His flatmate offered.

"No, thank you, John."

John sauntered over to 'his' chair and draped his coat over it, then he made his way into the kitchen, eyeing Sherlock's experiment cautiously before humming whilst he flicked the kettle on.

The detectives phone buzzed and he walked over to the table to check the text message. He was tired and overwhelmed after that experience, and wasn't joking when he said he wasn't feeling himself. Picking up the phone, he scrolled to his inbox for the one new message.

He smiled. He couldn't wait.

'Until the next time. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes- JM x'


	4. Missing Jim...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's hand stopped moving. Moriarty could see him that whole time. He closed his eyes and let out a sly laugh. If it was a show Jim wanted, it was a show he would get.
> 
> He stood up and slowly, teasingly, began to undo his shirt...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set near the beginning of 'A scandal in Belgravia' - S2E1

His footsteps echoed around him as he descended down the marble staircase. The light enveloping the detective was white, almost angelic if not given the circumstances. His breaths were heavy, filling up the space as he ran. Forcing his breathing to slow, he matched his pace into it, the thumping of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior.

He stopped abruptly in the middle of a corridor, the light ridding his face of shadows and making the blue eyes shine brighter.  
Sherlock was once again face to face with the consulting criminal, who was wearing slightly more formal attire than their last encounter.

"Where have you been?" He asked the figure in front of him.

"How am I supposed to know?" An Irish accent replied loud and clear, reverberating around the detective.

"Moriarty," Sherlock started, "You text me. You left. I haven't seen you in weeks. I don't know what you're planning, or why you did any of that to me but if you dare show up without a good explanation..."

He was interrupted by James Moriarty loosening his tie and twirling it round his fingers absent-mindedly.

"Sherly , I believe we are on a first name basis now, don't you?" Jim sobered suddenly, "Besides, even if Moriarty was planning anything, I wouldn't know."

"But..."

Jim took a step closer to the detective, still wrapping his tie around his fingers.

"I am... what shall we call it? A figment. I do exist in this wonderful mind palace of yours," he waved his arm around, pointing at the seemingly endless hallway, "but I only act like James Moriarty as you know him. Everything you know about him will go into making me. The more you learn, the more I develop."

Sherlock frowned as he took all the information in. The criminal moved closer.

"Of course, you could always delete me from your hard drive - but would you really want to?"

The detective eyed Jim as he closed the gap between them.

"So right here, right... now," Sherlock tried to control his breathing but found it hard as the criminal was staring up at him with brown eyes, a bemused look on his face, "You are only in my mind. So whatever I imagine," he paused again, "Will happen."

"Now you're getting it. Well done. Now seeing as you can control anything inside this funny little head of yours..." Jim dropped his tie on the floor and adjusted his collar, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a different outfit? I do love these suits but they aren't exactly practical."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, selecting some new clothes for the criminal. When he opened them, Moriarty was twirling around, admiring his dark trousers and baggy blue shirt that revealed his collarbones.

"I like. A lot," he grinned at the detective, who's mouth twitched into a faint smile in response. 

Sherlock pulled the figment of Jim close, glad that he memorized the cologne that he was wearing a few weeks ago. It made the entire experience more realistic. They kissed deeply, Jim untying Sherlock's scarf so he could run his fingers through the back of the detectives curls. They stood there embracing each other in the light of the hall, the only darkness the shadows the pair were casting. Intensifying the kiss, Sherlock explored Jim's mouth again; it felt exactly how he remembered. Warm, passionate. Moriarty was all he could taste, all he could think.  
They pulled apart, breathing heavily. Sherlock raised his hands to his hair and tried to tame it, failing miserably.

Jim clapped his hands together once and shrugged.

"I don't know what he's planning, or why he came to your flat. Somehow, though, I get the feeling it's because you, Sherlock Holmes, are a very good kisser."

The detective let out something between a sigh and a chuckle.

"I'd better go..."

He turned around, picked up his scarf and started back down the corridor, looking behind his shoulder only once to see that James Moriarty was still stood there- back in his suit and knotting his tie around his neck.

*****

"...but of course I wasn't going to take any of that from him so I says to him, I says, 'You know, you really aren't going to get anywhere with that attitude.' But you know what kids are like these days, always want to do their own thing... Sherlock, are you listening to me?"

The detective jolted slightly at the mention of his name. He unclasped his fingers from under his chin and turned to face Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock, you look so... blank. Dear, oh dear..." The landlady shuffled out of the room, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

He blushed slightly as she left, embarrassed that he was in his mind palace kissing Moriarty while she was in the area with him, wittering on about some other of her friend's children. The detective's forehead had a sheen of sweat to it- he'd obviously been enjoying himself.

Wondering why Jim hadn't been in contact, he checked his phone. So maybe he had spoken too soon.

'You don't hate me do you? - JM'

Sherlock huffed out through his nose. How dare he just text Sherlock like this?

'Of course not. You only killed dozens of people, threatened my best friend, tried to blow me up, turned up at my flat and kissed me before not texting me for about a month. I'm absolutely fine. You? - SH'

'I shouldn't have asked. - JM'

Sherlock didn't reply to this one. He left his phone on the sofa and made his way over to the kitchen table, where yet another experiment was taking place. John walked in, struggling with five shopping bags which he not-so-gently dropped on the floor by the fridge.

"Thanks for the help," he grunted sarcastically.

John stopped and stared at Sherlock; who was normally so precise with his investigations, now slamming a glass beaker on the table and mashing a suspiciously thick red mixture moodily.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes I'm perfectly alright thank you," the detective snapped.

"No, you're not," John stood in front of Sherlock as he tried to sidestep his flatmate, "Tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock sighed in defeat, and all of a sudden looked a lot more young and innocent. John led him over to the sofa and looked him straight in the eyes. If anything was bothering his best friend, he was going to find out. 

"I can help," he told his friend earnestly.

"I don't think you can," Sherlock laughed dryly, " I'm feeling something that I shouldn't be feeling, John. I appreciate your concern but there's really nothing you can..."

Sherlock's phone buzzed and he leaned over to look. It was the fourth text since he had gone over to the kitchen. John decided to leave his flatmate to his thoughts- if he couldn't get it out of Sherlock, then nothing could.

As soon as John was gone, the detective checked his phone.

'I'm sorry? - JM'

'Please reply Sherlock. - JM'

'I said you could lose yourself with me... I meant it. - JM'

'I was scared, Sherlock. - JM'

The last text made Sherlock hesitate. His fingers hovered over the keypad as he debated over what to respond with.

'So was I. - SH'

He exhaled a breath he didn't know he was holding until another text came through.

'So we're good then? - JM'

'We're good. - SH'

'I have a confession to make... - JM'

Sherlock stopped, his brain desperately trying to figure out what Moriarty had planned.

'There was no kissogram from anyone. It was just me that wanted to kiss you. - JM'I

The detective couldn't stop himself from laughing out loud, earning a strange look from John who had just stuck his head round the door. Sherlock pursed his lips and John shook his head, retreating back into his bedroom.

'I don't know what you want. - SH'

'You. - JM'

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that, but soon relaxed.

'Plus, I heard you were invited to Buckingham palace the other day. - JM'

'What's that got to do with anything? - SH'

'A little birdy told me that you were wearing nothing but a sheet. Bet the queen was happy. - JM'

Sherlock could just imagine the big grin on Moriarty's face as he was typing that.

'You heard correctly. - SH'

'Hmmm... if I was there, we probably could have gotten rid of the sheet... - JM'

The detective made a muffled choking noise in the back of his throat. His brain was on a roll now. Conjuring up images of him and Jim in one of the exquisitely decorated rooms, Jim undoing the sheet from around his waist and planting kisses all the way down Sherlock's chest, his mouth getting lower...

His phone vibrated on his leg and he stifled a moan.

'Bet that got you thinking, didn't it? - JM'

Yes, Sherlock thought. Before he could be tempted any more, he swept through to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. Sitting on the bed, he desperately checked his inbox for more ideas.

'Would you like that? We could get caught at any time. But given our last encounter, that sort of thing turns you on, yes? - JM'

'Maybe. - SH' Was the only thing that he was able to respond with; his mind was far too busy.

'Oh? I'd push you up against the wall and kiss and bite you all over. I'd pin your arms to your sides and make sure they stayed there. I'd pull your trousers down and tease you. Then I'd take you all in my mouth and suck, hard. Easy for me. But you'd have to stay quiet, biting your lip so you don't make a sound. I wouldn't make it easy for you. I'd swallow when you're done and you'd be panting and sweating, just for me. I'd like that, Sherly. Would you? - JM'

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how it happened, but somehow, when he was reading that text, his hand had found its way in between his legs. Cautiously, he slid a hand down into his trousers and palmed gently, then let out a shaky breath as he started to massage.

The detective's imagination was running wild now. He conjured up a different scene. He was the master now, riding crop in hand. Jim was bound and gagged before him, naked, looking up with big brown eyes. By the time Sherlock was finished, Jim was bucking and shaking underneath him and...

Sherlock gasped and started to stroke faster, hand moving skilfully along his length.  
His phone buzzed again; he had almost forgotten about it.

'Is now not the best time to tell you I installed a camera and bug in your room? ;) -JM'

Sherlock's hand stopped moving. Moriarty could see him that whole time. He closed his eyes and let out a sly laugh. If it was a show Jim wanted, it was a show he would get.

He stood up and slowly, teasingly, began to undo his shirt...


	5. Putting on a show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I used to tell myself that no-one would ever get to me. You did, Sherlock"

'Stop - JM'

The text came through just as Sherlock was undoing the second button. He looked down at the phone, confused, before trying to spot the camera in the room.  
Surely he wants me to do this, the detective wondered.

'I want you to continue, but you will do exactly as I say - JM'

So Jim did want this, but he wanted to be in control. Influence every one of Sherlock's movements. As there was no way for Sherlock to overpower him, the last he could do was figure out where the camera and bug were.

'Put your arms by your sides and stand up straight - JM'

Sherlock did as he was told. This, however, didn't stop his eyes roaming the room to find Jim's little toys.

'Good. Now undo your shirt. Slowly - JM'

The detective ran his hand over his neck, rolling his head back a bit to give the camera a show. He figured that Jim would want it in a place that could both overlook his bed and work area, just to keep tabs on Sherlock. If he was correct then this excluded the corner to the left of his bed and the area to the right of his door, when he was in the room. He positioned himself at the end of his bed, in front of his desk of papers.

Sherlock unbuttoned a few more buttons on his shirt, fluttering his fingertips teasingly down the bit of exposed chest. He continued to undo it, stopping occasionally to run over his chest with his long fingers. Sherlock finished, letting the shirt fall open and the arms bunch at his elbows.

'Lie on your bed, Sherlock dear, and take off your shirt properly. You won't be needing it - JM'

Jim was eager, wasn't he? Sherlock smiled darkly and let his top fall to the floor before lying on his bed, awaiting the next instructions.

'Go on. Experiment. You've never done this before, have you? Do what you want, just keep your hand away from your trousers. If you want I can say some things that may help you along - JM'

Sherlock ran his hand up from his navel to his neck, then dragged it back down lightly, nails scraping at the skin gently. Jim was right - he really had no idea what to do. His phone vibrated once, twice, three times before he realised someone was calling him. He picked up.

"You look like you're having some trouble there, Sherly. Need me to talk your through it?" Jim's voice was flirtatious, as it usually was.

"Go on..." Sherlock replied.

"Run your hand up and down your chest. Up and down. Up and down."

The detective's hand fell into a hypnotic rhythm stroking across his body, and his eyes started to close after a while. Jim was still repeating the phrase down the phone, breathing it into Sherlock. He imagined it was Jim's hands running up and down him, subduing him as the steady pace and the criminals words put him in a trance.

"Keep stroking, Sherlock," Jim didn't take his voice out of the slow, soothing tone, "but on your way up and down, brush over..."

The detective didn't need to be told what to do. Still completely surrounded by Jim's silken voice, he brushed his nipple on the way up, letting out a shaky breath each time he did. His strokes picked up, brushing a little harder each time, nails scratching lightly at the skin. Pulling at the buds on his chest, he allowed himself a small moan.

"Yes, Sherlock, that's right. Keep your eyes closed and imagine it's me touching you. Feeling every part of you."

Sherlock kept fondling the buds, feeling them get smaller and tightening, imagining that Jim was there, putting his hands and mouth on every part of skin that was available.

There was still a small nagging sensation in the back of his mind. Something fighting against Moriarty's words. It was the reasoning that Sherlock always kept with him, no matter what. 'If you give in to Jim now, it told him, there's no going back. You're just going to give yourself to him?' Hmm... well no, but he does have a very soothing voice. His mind and body were warring. 

"Ngh," he wimpered as he fondled and touched his chest, curious of his own body.

Stop. STOP. The logical, functioning post of his brain was warning him. The detective twitched, as if listening to two arguments either side of his head. There may be no going back after this, but he could still gain control after, right? 'Shhh...' He hushed the logical part of his head. 'It won't be so bad... Jim... Jim will take care of me...' The reasoning was getting fainter now. 'I am putting on a show... just for Jim' He could feel himself giving in, falling deeper. 'I'm just...curious. I want knowledge. I want to know what it feels like.' Moriarty was still drawling into his ear, whispering promises. Promises of pleasure. 'I want to be his...' 

That was it. Sherlock Holmes belonged to James Moriarty. A new command restored his lucidity slightly, just enough to heed the following words.

"Sherlock, I want you to keep focusing on my voice, yes?"

"Mmm, yes," Sherlock managed to say.

"Good. I want you to undo your trousers, and take them off."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He left the phone on the bed and deftly undid the zip on his trousers before sliding the smooth material down his legs. Dropping them untidily on the floor alongside his top, he lay back on the bed again.

"Run your hand down your chest, further....and stop," the detective could hear the hunger in Jim's voice, and his hand hovered above the elastic of his underwear. Not sure if he was doing something wrong, Sherlock held his hand still and listened intently, hearing only the breaths of the criminal.

"Okay. Good. Now, Sherly, trust me. Push your hand down, Palm first."

Sherlock hesitated. He had never done anything like this before, but soon remembered how soothing Moriarty sounded earlier, how... trustworthy. He angled his hand and lowered it to his boxers. Sherlock muffled something into his closed lips.

"Start moving your hand, palming slowly to start."

Sherlock obeyed and moved his hand and fingers slowly, rolling them across and back. He was breathing heavily out of his nose now, partly because of arousal, and partly because this was so... obscene. Picking up speed a bit, he moaned quietly into the phone, forgetting that Jim was still on the other side of it.

"Feel that? Do you feel yourself hardening? Of course you do, Sherlock. That, combined with myself, is going to push you over the edge," he giggled childishly, "maybe you'll pass out. I hope so. It's going to feel so good."

The detective palmed faster, forehead plastered in a thin sheen of sweat. Jim was right; he could feel himself hardening- this excited him. Sherlock had never really thought about doing this sort of thing, let alone had the chance to. He'd never seen the appeal in sex, but if touching himself like this felt this good, and sex was meant to be better then...

"Stop."

He whined at the sudden disturbance, reluctantly removing his hand. 

"Take off your boxers," come to think about it, Jim's voice sounded a bit huskier than before. Sherlock was to far gone to question it, though.

He slid his hand down one side, and lowered them eventually to his knees before flinging them off to the side. He knew better than to start without permission, so he waited- albeit impatiently- like a dog waiting for its master. 

"You're so beautiful, Sherly. Look at you," Jim cut himself off with a moan, "I want to ravage you. Take your all in my mouth and suck you dry. I bet you're a good fuck too. In future maybe I won't be calling you The Virgin."

Sherlock growled, restlessly. He wanted to keep touching himself.

"Look, you're getting all flustered. Well..." the criminals voice deepened, "...keep going. I want you to keep imagining it's me touching you. I want you all to myself. Who do you belong to, Sherlock?"

"Y-you," he stuttered before reaching to stroke himself again. This was so much better. He gasped aloud as his hand closed completely around his length. Sherlock fisted up and down. He was completely hard now; his dick was long and not too thick, not too thin. Just like the rest of his body. 

The first few minutes were spent groaning uncontrollably as he experimented, squeezing there and stroking gently here. He started from the base and made his way up, repeating this pattern and creating various scenarios behind his eyelids.

 

 

* "You've been naughty, haven't you Sherlock?" Jim was looming over him, creating a vast shadow even in his darkened bedroom. The lamp was on in the corner, but this was the only light provided. 

Sherlock felt intimidated, weak and immensely turned on by the sight of Moriarty looking so dominant above him. Peering up from his kneeling position- he couldn't do much else as his hands were bound behind him with Jim's tie- he nodded.  
The criminal crouched so he was face to face with Sherlock, rubbing the riding crop threateningly along his captives jawline.

"Answer me," Jim growled.

"Yes." He managed feebly. The detective didn't trust himself to say anything else for fear of a moan slipping out.

Moriarty's dark eyes hardened. "Yes...?"

"Yes S-sir."

"Yes indeed. Sherly's been a bad boy," he pouted, "so Mr Moriarty is going to have to punish him. Or maybe..."

Sherlock's blue eyes were staring hopefully at Jim, pupils dilated, trying to convey that he would do anything. Jim would just have to give the word.  
Moriarty walked round to the back of the detective, pretending to inspect him before proceeding to undo the tie binding Sherlock's wrists. He turned to face his captive again, frowning when he saw Sherlock looking confused. 

"Aren't you going to punish me... Sir?" 

Sherlock immediately regretted speaking out of line. Jim whipped the riding crop across the left side of Sherlock's face, pleased with the smacking sound. The slave knew when he had no choice. Sherlock growled a little with pain but dropped low to all fours, submitting to the criminal. He was weak, humiliated and desperate. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but Moriarty's displays of power turned him on more than anything, and he felt a pull in his groin when he was hit.

"If you dare speak without permission again," Jim said coldly, resting the riding crop on the submitting detectives head, "I will fuck you so hard you will be sore for days. Everyone will know. I will mark you, Sherlock, so every soul knows who you belong to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," he replied to the best of his ability. The blood wasn't really in his head at that moment.

"Good. Suck me off like a good little slave, then."

Sherlock looked up wild-eyed. This was his punishment?

He wasted no time in pushing Jim up against the wall and unzipping his trousers. Lowering the criminals boxers to his thighs, Sherlock moved his head close to Jim, still kneeling. He noticed that Moriarty was already half hard. Looking up innocently, he breathed hot air onto the criminals dick, teasing him.  
Jim moaned and grabbed Sherlock's hair, forcing him to sink his mouth down. He took him in his mouth all the way to the hilt and stayed there, unmoving. As soon as Moriarty gazed down to see why he had stopped, Sherlock closed his throat around his length, causing Jim to throw his head back and moan loudly.

Sherlock groaned against the criminals cock, sending vibrations into his core. He flicked his tongue around the base and up the bottom, making Jim shiver. Hollowing his cheeks, he started to pull up and down Moriarty's length, the moans coming from the other man only spurring him on. Sherlock pulled all the way back to the tip and ran his tongue through Jim's slit. He smiled around Moriarty's dick as he tasted pre-come.

The criminal bucked hard into Sherlock's mouth, sending his cock all the way to the back of his throat. Sherlock growled and started to stroke his own dick, timing his hand to Moriarty's thrusts, panting more as he felt himself get hard. Both the geniuses were sweating now, Sherlock desperately trying to push them both to the edge. He sucked hard on Jim's length, gently scraping his teeth at the base and tongueing the slit. Sherlock felt Jim's thrusts get more erratic, as did his hand that was playing with himself. 

"S-Sherlock..." Jim moaned, "So c-close."

Sherlock picked up the pace, earning a pleasing growl from his master. Jim's hips bucked unevenly and he threw his head back as he came and Sherlock.....Sherlock.... *

 

Sherlock bucked up as he thumbed his slit and moaned in pure pleasure. His daydream had brought him close to the edge. 

"Keep g-going Sherlock. Please," Jim begged from the other side of the phone. He was breathing heavily, so Sherlock's guess was that they were doing the same thing. 

Sherlock pushed his head back into the bed, letting out a gutteral moan as he kept running long fingers, slick with pre-come, over his slit. He pumped faster and faster, groaning unashamedly, uncaring who heard him. Hearing Jim's rapid and frequent gasps, his mind wandered back to the scene he conjured up a minute ago.  
Sherlock made a circle with his fingers and turned and squeezed near the base of his dick, lifting his head to see more pre-come dribbling out. The sight of it was mesmerizing- to think that he'd never done this before and now he was stroking himself, losing himself.

Sherlock's mind was in a mess. No amount of drugs he had tried before had ever produced this sensation. The LSD had given him vivid hallucinations for longer than he had expected (much to Mycroft's amusement and disdain) and the heroin had made his sharp wits into a blurry haze (once again, Mycroft was not impressed). But this? This was so much better than any drug.

'Can I get addicted to this?' Thought Sherlock. In his current state of mind, he felt like this could possibly be the most addicting thing he had ever tried... and the detective had tried a lot of substances.

He felt his stomach muscles tighten and the pull in his groin intensify. Did this mean he was close? 

He had no idea, only that it felt good. Very good, in fact.

Pumping his length harder and faster, he tried to prolong the experience, growling and rutting into his own hand to get more pleasure. Jim spoke.

"Come for me, Sherlock."

It wasn't a request.

Sherlock's back arched off the bed and his hand moved furiously. His mouth was slightly ajar and he moaned, muscles tensing under his skin. A sheen of sweat covered his pale body, and every movement, every little twitch and jerk of his muscles was clearly visible to Jim. The detectives eyes squeezed shut and he seemed to have a moment of peace; face smooth and calm, body straight and taught and unmoving, before he let out a whimper that turned into a whine, a growl, a moan. Sherlock finally convulsed, shaking. He came hard, shooting up onto his chest and moaning Jim's name. White lights flashed behind his eyes and his mind completely blanked, lost in so many sensations. 

On the other side of the phone he heard laboured breathing and then loud moans from Jim as he pushed himself over the edge.

Sherlock lay there, panting, eyes glazed over in a post orgasm daze. The only thing on his mind in that moment was how amazing (and hot) it was to hear Jim's breaths and moans from the other side, knowing that it was Sherlock who did it to him. He gave that to Moriarty.

It took what seemed like forever for one of them to talk again. They both waited until their heavy breathing had returned to a relatively normal rate, and then Moriarty spoke.

"Sherlock... oh, my.... Sherlock..."

"Hmm?" The detective replied, still shocked at the events.

Sherlock could hear quiet chuckling down the phone. He frowned.

"My God, you're cute when you frown."

He stopped abruptly, and settled into a comfortable position on his bed.

"Hmm... uhm tiuuuh..." Sherlock mumbled incoherently.

"Speak up a tad, Sherly."

"I'm tired." He yawned.

"Hmm."

They stayed silent for a while longer, and Sherlock's eyelids began to droop.

"Stay awake for the moment, Sherly," Jim spoke softly, "I need to compliment you. Surely you can stay awake for that?"

Moriarty laughed again, which made Sherlock sigh gently.

"That was amazing. You were... Sherlock, I can't describe. I felt like I was there with you, seeing you, breathing with you. Do you see? We are the same, you and I. Yet so different. Made for each other. I know it." The criminal explained. 

Sherlock smiled at Jim's words, and felt himself slipping into sleep. 

"Maybe, just maybe, I'll have to be there with you next time. How does that sound, Sherlock?" Moriarty lulled to the detective.

"Hmm... Yes.." He breathed slowly, and his movements stopped.

*****

Moriarty leaned closer to the screen. His eyes hurt from the brightness in the dark room, but it didn't matter to him. 

Sherlock was breathing heavier and harsher, his previously pure body slick with sweat and flushed pink.  
Jim leant back in his chair a bit, and pushed his hips up into his hand again. God, he wanted to ravish that detective, and have him begging for mercy. He growled like a beast and tilted his head back slightly, so the computer was still in view.

Even in this state, Jim noticed a change in behaviour. Sherlock's eyes were moving furiously behind his eyelids.

'He's fantasizing,'' Thought the criminal, and grinned. Whatever it was, it was bound to be something juicy and naughty. Sherlock was so hot lying there. His hips were moving uncontrollably, but Moriarty knew that the man had enough willpower to prolong this as long as possible.

So he watched. And he toyed.

It had been a while since the criminal had gotten a chance to... unwind. Jim slowed the movements on his length slightly, taking in the feeling. He clenched his hand and started to pump, clumsily at first, but he soon found a rhythm. Moriarty thought about Sherlock being dominated by him, kneeling in front of him and begging.

That confident, arrogant, strong detective cowering in front of him, begging for mercy...

'NO!' Jim thought, 'begging to be fucked. Yes. That's better...'

Sherlock would be powerless and Jim would be his master. Hmm. That sounded good. He imagined the detective pushing him against a wall and taking his length in his mouth and sucking. He could almost feel the wet warmth of Sherlock's mouth, closing tight so that all of the criminal was covered, then moaning loudly so that he knew just how much he loved pleasing his master.

Jim moved his hand nimbly. He was sweating and panting, moaning and whimpering. But still thinking and watching. Sherlock seemed to be done with his fantasy, and it was clearly good, because Moriarty could see that it brought him close to the edge.

But the more he watched, the more Jim was enchanted by the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest; the hypnotic moans that were starting to get erratic. Suddenly, Jim didn't want Sherlock to be denied this. The look of pure pleasure on his face made the criminal think.

"Keep g-going Sherlock, please." Oh God, that felt good to say. Now that Sherlock knew how much Jim wanted it... Yes, he was definitely trying to prolong the moment.

James saw Sherlock lift his head up to inspect. He almost chuckled out loud- it was kind of cute. The detective really had no idea what he was about to experience. It was just Sherlock being himself, inspecting every new feeling deeply, without any idea of how he was going to completely go blank in a minute.

Moriarty felt himself tipping; he had stroked and thumbed and moaned until he was sore, but he knew just what to do to get Sherlock to follow his lead.

"Come for me, Sherlock."

Leaning in towards the computer screen, he saw Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut, and his muscles tense in his convulsing body. It was the most beautiful thing Jim had ever seen. And Sherlock was doing it because of him.

Moriarty pumped a few more times before he felt himself going over the edge. He shook and moaned wildly as he rubbed his slit down to the base of his dick and back up again. After coming, he stroked it gently, enjoying the shivers it sent him when he touched his sensitive length. 

He felt as if his breathing had to return to normal first, so he kept stroking lazily- smiling and sighing as he watched Sherlock come down from his high. He looked tired. And dazed- almost as if he had been taking drugs. He grinned at the thought, imaging Sherlock taking drugs, becoming doped and then having sex. He may have to try that.

The detective finally looked calm and so Jim thought it necessary to speak.

Jim paid Sherlock a few simple complements- although he was sure they would boost the detectives ego. He talked softly... the criminal knew that Sherlock's mind would be easy to manipulate after that. He felt a pull in his groin at the thought. After orgasming, the man would be open to a lot of things... or at least he wouldn't put up any resistance.  
But instead of influencing Sherlock too much, he spoke quietly- the detective was cute when he was tired and frowny; Jim informed him of this.

Jim saw the man finally slip into sleep, and he whispered down the phone; quietly, subtly, afraid. As soon as Sherlock was asleep, he changed.

"I used to tell myself no-one would ever get to me. You did, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000 reads!! You guys.... ^_^  
> Thank you for your support :)


	6. How many Brits does it take to change a lightbulb?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'How goes the case? Figured it out yet?- JM'
> 
> 'I'm getting there.- SH'
> 
> 'I'm sure you are. I have another one lined up for you. She may provide more... shall we say, substantive experiences?- JM'
> 
> 'She?- SH'
> 
> 'Goodnight Sherly, try not to dream about me too much- JM'

John looked Sherlock up and down. He had seen this act so many times and yet he still didn't comprehend the detective's mind. 

Sherlock was hunched over on the tarmac outside some flats, eyeing some blood splatters on the ground through his pocket magnifying glass. When John was on a case with Sherlock (which was increasing alarmingly lately), his skills as a doctor were always utilised. So far he was still trying to get his head around this case. With no body to inspect, he was at a loss- although he was starting to have ideas about these blood stains on the pavement..

But John knew, no matter how much he thought he had deduced, Sherlock was always a leap and bound ahead.

"Alright," he sighed as the detective straightened, looking passive as ever, "what have you got?"

Sherlock stared at the smaller man, narrowing his eyes and shifting them to rest at Inspector Lestrade, who was stepping under the police tape a few metres away. 

"Oh," he brushed off the question, "not much," and strode over to the D.I.

John shot a string of curses under his breath, not caring if his flatmate heard him.

"Sherlock, are you done? What do you have?" 

"Well, Graham..."

"Greg," Lestrade corrected.

"Witnesses claimed they were at a party of the man in question. He, in his drunken state, climbed on to the ledge of his balcony and fell. Correct?"

"Yes."

"A party-goer - and the man's best friend- rushes to the ledge first, panics, and tells the others to stay back because the sight is too disturbing. By the time they call an ambulance- again due to this man's friend- the man is clearly dead, splayed on the ground."

Greg took Sherlock's pause as a chance to answer, "Yes, that's right, but.."

The detective ploughed on, "Inspector I need another opinion. In your eyes, how long would the interval be between the man falling and the other party guests seeing his body after calling the ambulance? You've seen the room, talked to the witnesses. How long?"

"Well, the room is quite big, and with all of them being a tad drunk, I'd say..." the Detective Inspector's eyebrows rose and his eyes roved up as he thought, "about 20 seconds."

"That's all I need, Glenn," and Sherlock sped off to find a taxi.

John huffed and followed suit, annoyed at his friend for leaving him in the dark again. Whatever he'd found, Sherlock wasn't planning on explaining it.

"It's Greg," Lestrade said hopelessly.

"I'LL KEEP YOU UPDATED," Sherlock yelled, signalling for John to hurry up and get in the cab.

John got in without saying a word. Sherlock looked at him, and John wondered if he was going to speak to him.

"Where to?" The cabbie turned round.

Sherlock's eyes flicked away.

"221 Baker Street."

*** 

 

John teetered on the chair, glaring at his flatmate who actively refused to help him, instead settling on the sofa in his silken dressing gown. 

"Bloody hell," he hissed as the lightbulb shattered under his fingers, the glass making a home in his palm. He glanced over at Sherlock again, who had a faint smile playing on his lips. So the bugger was going to sit there playing hide and seek in his mind palace while John tore his hands to shreds? 

"Are you doing it?"

"Doing what?" John scowled.

"Changing the lightbulb."

"Yes."

There was silence as Sherlock slipped back into... whatever he does in his bloody mind palace and as his flatmate was juggling a new lightbulb in one hand, a smashed one in the other and still balancing on this chair that didn't want to stay still.

"Are you doing it?"

"Yes," came John's frosty reply.

"Have you done it?"

"No."

He was one second away from throwing the broken glass in Sherlock's face.

More silence.

"Have you done it?"

"SHERLOCK."

The detective's eyes opened and he squinted at his friend, the noise so unexpected. 

"John..?"

John turned around and faced the other way, annoyed at himself for snapping like that at Sherlock. 

"Let me help..."

Without a sound, Sherlock pried the broken glass from John's hand, laid it down on the table and motioned for his flatmate to step down from the chair. Sherlock took his place, finding it easier to reach the light as he was taller. 

He held his hand out, and John placed the lightbulb onto Sherlock's outstretched palm. He noticed how long the detectives fingers were, and glanced at his own hands, comparing them.  
When he was done inspecting his hands, he looked up- the new bulb was in and Sherlock was looking down at him. 

Neither spoke, and Sherlock stepped down from the chair, not breaking eye contact. He held John's hands.

"Are you okay?"

Both of them stared at the cuts for a while; John started to chuckle. Sherlock furrowed his brow, his nose scrunching a little too.

"I'm an army doctor," he explained, laughing properly now.

Sherlock joined in, both laughing at the strangeness of a doctor and a detective inspecting some scratches on one of the pair's hands.

Their laughter faded away, and John noticed Sherlock hadn't let go of him. John shifted his weight- he didn't know what to do. The detective stood there for a second longer, lingering on a thought he clearly had. It was suddenly gone when he dropped John's hands and gazed at the ceiling.

"Glad we got that sorted," he went back to the sofa as abruptly as he'd let go of John.

The doctor coughed an agreement, then walked off further into the flat.

Sherlock's phone buzzed on the arm of the sofa. He sighed.

'I have a joke- JM'

'...I'm not usually one for jokes- SH'

'Trust me, you'll love it- JM'

'I don't trust you- SH'

'Boo :( -JM'

Sherlock left it at that. He wasn't in the mood for jokes. He was in the mood for answers. More infuriatingly, answers that he- or anyone, for that matter- didn't have. Like why in the name of sanity didn't he let go of John's hand? That was awkward, and John knew it too. Sherlock despaired at himself sometimes- even though he would never admit it. He annoyed his friend, then made him feel awkward. The wasn't what he wanted. To be honest, Sherlock didn't know what he wanted. Even sleep sounded good at this point.  
He must be desperate.

'Well, I'm going to tell you anyway- JM'

'Okay, here goes- JM'

The detective was conflicted. It wasn't long ago that he wanted Jim. His mind, his body. Sherlock still did. Badly. He wanted more experiences. He wanted them now.

'How many Brits does it take to change a lightbulb? ;) -JM'

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. Of course Jim had installed cameras. The man probably got off while Sherlock was in bed.

'You're smiling- JM'

'No I'm not- SH'

'I have another joke. Well, more of a question- JM'

'Go- SH'

'How much have you missed me?- JM'

'I have no measurement for that- SH'

'Very clever, Sherly. How goes the case? Figured it out yet?- JM'

'I'm getting there- SH'

'I'm sure you are. Oh, and when you're done with that one, I have another lined up for you. She may provide more... shall we say, substantive experiences?- JM'

This caught Sherlock's attention.

'She?- SH'

'Goodnight, Sherly. Try not to dream about me too much! - JM'

He did it deliberately. Sherlock couldn't concentrate. He didn't understand. Not understanding was infuriating. 

Perhaps...Yes. He needs to... unwind. It will help. Sherlock could imagine Jim saying it. 

***

"You neeed to relaaaax, Sherly," James walked round to Sherlock's back, the white of his mind palace reflecting light, the hallways echoing Jim's voice.

"Unwind, live a little." 

He slid Sherlock's coat off, followed by his tie which snaked around his neck, unfurling as Jim spoke.

"No..." Sherlock protested, "you can't..." James pushed his hips into Sherlock's back and kissed his neck, "you can't do this to me again."

"You could stop me. I'm not real. Go on, Sherly. Stop me. Resist..."

He continued to grind into the detectives back. Painfully slowly. Enough to turn him on, but not enough to... get anywhere.

***

Sherlock stood up from the sofa, hesitating only when he thought about what he was going to do. He walked past John's room, ignoring John's; 'Sherlock?'

He locked the door. He entered his mind palace. Jim was still stood there.

***

"Sherly couldn't resist," he singsonged, "Sherly couldn't..."

He was cut off by a snarl, and Sherlock pinning him against the wall, biting his jaw and neck furiously, grinding against his crotch. 

"Jim, please."

Jim turned them round, and unzipped Sherlock's trousers.

"Quick, please. Fast... ah!"

He moaned as James knelt in front of him, breathing hot air onto his groin. He dug his hands into Sherlock's hips, leaving bruises. Sherlock grabbed Jim's hair, trying to get what he wanted.

"You want quick? My dear, this will be anything but..."

Jim slowly pulled the elastic down at a steady rate, drawing a continuous moan from Sherlock, who shook. His length was already completely hard. Jim kept breathing, lips only just grazing the sensitive skin there. Sherlock couldn't keep quiet. He was shaking uncontrollably already, and James relished torturing him. 

His mouth found its way to Sherlock's balls, which he kissed, then nibbled. The detective whimpered. 

"Jim, please..."

Jim licked all around them, then took them in his mouth and sucked, gently to start, then harder. 

Sherlock thrashed against Moriarty's hands but they held him.

"More..."

Jim stroked Sherlock's cock, fingers lightly sliding up and down, taking in every twitch of Sherlock's mouth, every strangled groan.

He closed a fist, and moved it up and down, enough to keep Sherlock as compliant as possible, without making his orgasm yet. Jim licked under the bottom, around the base and gradually up the sides, never taking him all yet.  
Sherlock's dick extended more, his arousal and the smell of sex turning Jim on, who thrusted against the detectives leg, rolling his hips again.

Jim reached the end of Sherlock's cock, licking through the slit, eliciting a deep, sharp moan from the man, sending a spike in Jim's groin, making him rut harder against Sherlock's leg.  
Sherlock moved his leg in time with Moriarty's thrusts, making Jim groan with pleasure and sink down to the bottom of Sherlock's dick, all self control gone.  
Jim tasted pre-come, and swirled it around his tongue and down Sherlock's length.

Both were shaking and sweating now, Sherlock so wild eyed and desperate to come, and Jim thrusting like an animal against him. Jim was licking Sherlock's slit, looking to produce more moans like the one a second ago.  
The detective reached a hand down to his crotch and stroked himself, faster, faster, until he was moaning, shaking and just on the edge of his orgasm.

"J-Jim..."

Jim understood, and sucked hard, teasing with his tongue and fingers, looking up innocently and just waiting for Sherlock to...

His eyes rolled back and he threw his head against the wall, mouth open and emitting only soundless cries as the came hard and fast down Jim's throat. It was warm and wet, and the feeling of Jim swallowing made him shake and groan some more. 

Jim stood up- with difficulty- hand in his pants and trousers, stroking himself fast, eyes scrunched closed and mouth slightly ajar. Sherlock drank it all in, every quake and every moan, saving it all for later. 

"S-Sherlock... I..."

Jim fell against Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around the criminal as he came apart against his chest. He rutted a few more times, moans cut off by his shaking, before slumping down the wall, exhausted.

Sherlock did the same. They looked at each other.

"So what was this about another case?"

The criminal smiled.

***

Sherlock woke up. A dream, in his mind palace. It wasn't the first time it has happened, but...

His hand slid across his crotch as he moved and he gasped. He was hard, and still sweating from the dream. Checking the door was definitely locked, Sherlock started to palm, enveloped in thoughts about Jim, the case and... 

..and...

John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took a while to update guys :/ Constructive criticism is helpful, so if you have anything you'd like to say, or any ideas for upcoming chapters, please let me know. Thanks for reading :)


	7. What do I owe you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wished these feelings would go away. It hurts to like somebody. This was irrational, he told himself. Stop it. Stop having feelings. Stop...
> 
> ***
> 
> No. He didn't want to do this again. He'd become a slave to his body since Jim introduced him to it. This had to stop.

An hour later, Sherlock emerged from his room feeling... well, strange to say the least.

Failing to 'clear his mind' in the bedroom- instead complicating the matter more- had made the detective very unhappy.

"Sherlock?"

John.

Sherlock swallowed rapidly, throat suddenly dry and he coughed out a response.

"John..."

His flatmate's head appeared in view, smiling lopsided. His body soon appeared and he was walking. Towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock gulped again. He felt sick. On the inside he was pleading that John wouldn't come any closer, lest he wanted a chance of being vomited on. He also wanted John to keep walking, just a bit more...

"You alright? You've been in there a while," he frowned, still sporting a smile, tilting his head like a puppy.

Sherlock had never really been one for animals, but this was... cute?

Before he could reply, John had continued, "I've already been to the shop this morning. And for God's sake, I hate those new DIY scan machines. I mean, what kind of stupid idea...?" 

The rest was lost to Sherlock. 'Yes, definitely a puppy', Sherlock thought as he watched his flatmate talk. 

His daydreaming was interrupted by John pointing at a carrier bag on his chair. With his finger. Those doctor's fingers...

A bag of blood red apples sat at the top of the bag. 

"You're always complaining that we never have any- only because you eat them all- so I got you some. You owe me."

"I don't owe you," Sherlock said indignantly. John held his gaze. He continued, "Okay, fine. What do I owe you?"

"Hmmmm..." John deliberately drew out his answer, "Sherlock Holmes, you owe me..."

The detective's chest hurt. John moved closer, eyes narrowed, but looking Sherlock up and down, inspecting him.

"An explanation."

What? That wasn't what he was expecting. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn't that.

"Uh..." He backed away one step, as John was stepping towards him, "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

This was new. Scary. Exciting. Sherlock was backing into the wall now. He could feel his heart in his ribs, throat, head, fingertips. John didn't stop moving, his mouth a dead straight line, eyes hard. 

"Tell me what you were doing."

"D-doing?" Sherlock had nowhere to go.

"In your room. Just now. And last night. You thought you could just run in there with no explanation?" 

Sherlock's eyes were wide, all of the blue showing, staring at John. Relentless John. Army John. 

What was he thinking? He was Sherlock Holmes, a genius! He couldn't be backed into a corner by someone like a small, helpless creature.

Which unfortunately, no matter how much he tried to deny it, that was what was happening. 

Sherlock leaned forward, trying to stare John down but it wasn't working.

They were very close now. Maybe if...

Sherlock thought about what he had when he woke up. How he...

He thought about John when he touched himself.

Maybe...

Sherlock lowered his head slightly, moving slowly, eyes relaxing. Lips parting.

John's dead straight line mouth curled. Until he was smiling. Then he was smiling until he was chuckling breathily and quietly. Sherlock opened his eyes wider again, and hung there, unsure of what to do. 

John took a large stride back abruptly.

"It seems like the only thing able to get Sherlock Holmes to talk about the cases he's working on is to use my military experience," he laughed, then mimed standing in a line of soldiers, face gruff and strict, "As you were, private."

He walked off, giggling to himself.

The detective looked on, hair ruffled and eyes squinted in confusion. A shower is where he could think without distraction.

 

****

Sherlock silently cursed himself. He stood in the shower unmoving, not caring that the water was much too cold. Of course John wouldn't have kissed him.

Idiot.

He swung an arm in frustration, knocking some bottles off the shelf. Ugh.

John thinks that they're platonic. They're just flatmates. Sherlock wished these feelings would go away. It hurts to like somebody, he realised. In that instant, he wished he could be a bit more like Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't care, doesn't like, doesn't love. Sherlock felt stupid, humiliated, and upset. Something he rarely felt, especially if it was to do with other humans. This was irrational, he told himself. Stop it. Stop having feelings. Stop...

A picture of John flashed in his mind again.

Stop.

And another. And another. 

Stop...

Sherlock couldn't stop, all he could see behind his eyelids was John. Occasionally Jim would show, and Sherlock would feel a pang of regret mixed with a lust and hunger. James Moriarty was interesting, he was hypnotic, sultry and attractive; Sherlock could no longer deny that. But now there was something about John, cute, small, John with so much more to him than anyone sees. He's brave yet kind, but also has a domineering side, as Sherlock just witnessed. The detective liked both sides of John. He liked the John who could fit under his arm on the sofa when they sit together, and the John that's not afraid of getting his hands dirty or taking charge. 

He liked John.

But Jim...

He liked Jim. 

No, John. 

He...

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, feeling sick again. He cradled his torso as the water turned boiling, steam rising around him. 

Maybe he liked both of them. Together.

No. He liked neither. He definitely didn't like Jim, with his brown eyes or accent or beautiful, perfect body. And he definitely didn't like John, with his strong yet gentle hands or humour or his stature that made Sherlock want to protect him from the horrible world of murder and criminals he'd dragged this man down into.

Absolutely not.

But if he didn't like them, why was he...?

Oh.

Sherlock was hard, thinking about Jim's powerful body moving on top of his. Like on the sofa, but much more... exciting and new. Thinking about John kneeling in front of him, the powerful army soldier giving himself to Sherlock. No barriers.

No. He didn't want to do this again. He'd become a slave to his body since Jim introduced him to it. He had to resist.

Sherlock turned to face the wall, fists clenched. He breathed heavily, pushing Jim and John from his mind. 

And failing.

He imagined himself stood there just as he was, fists balled, as the other men slipped in the shower with him to... play. 

Unclenching his hands, he placed them on the wall, head bowing down and eyes scrunched. He was panting now. The steam from the shower rose around him, clinging to his body. His legs and lower body were slightly stuck out, and he imagined John sitting underneath him, and Jim standing behind him. 

A shock ran through Sherlock's body. Everything hurt so badly. 

He rotated his hips slowly and rhythmically before slowing to a halt. His daydream from earlier reappeared, think of John taking his manhood while Jim fucked him gently from behind. 

Sherlock looked down. He felt guilt beyond anything he'd ever felt before. But his thoughts were so vivid, so...

He tugged on his hair desperately, trying to somehow extract the abominations from his now sullied mind. Shit. Sherlock felt like screaming that it wasn't his fault. That his body was being taken over. It was an endless stream of angry curses in his head at Jim and John and himself and damn it all. It wasn't fair. 

He leaned down, reaching for the bottles his brash movement earlier had knocked on the shower floor. As he did, his arm brushed against his cock and he shuddered, moaning a little too loudly before realising what he'd done.

Sherlock heard a scuffling outside the bathroom door. 

"Sherlock?" 

The detective stilled immediately.

"Sherlock, are you..." he heard an embarrassed coughing, "Are you okay?"

Was he okay? Sherlock could have laughed aloud. He was hysterical. The detective was on the brink of madness, of laughter and tears. 

He looked at the door, posture shrinking under the thought of John's inevitable shock and disappointment, eyes wild and conflicted, mouth thin with guilt and shame. 

Sherlock stepped out from the shower, steam rising from him and settling beads of water on his damp skin. He grabbed a small towel and neatly wrapped it around his waist, despite his shaking hands. How was he going to explain this to John? He couldn't lie, John knew; of course he did. Sherlock shook with every step, dread building up until he reached the door. 

"...Sherlock?" John whispered, unsure of himself.

Sherlock breathed out at the sound of John so small and weak. 'Bad' didn't even cover how he felt. 'I'm okay,' Sherlock thought. 'It's okay.'

He reached for the doorhandle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't updated in a while, but I have some VERY exciting chapters planned next.
> 
> UPDATE: I've altered the end of this chapter, and I'm going to change the next chapter too. I've kept the original and labelled it 'chapter 8' if you want to read it, but know that it no longer has a place in the story.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER HAS NO OUTCOME IN THE STORY  
> It's the bits of chapter 7 that I don't want to keep but I'll make an exception for you smut loving nasties ;)  
> This chapter is an optional extra and has nothing to do with the rest of the fic.

****

Sherlock silently cursed himself. He stood in the shower unmoving, not caring that the water was much too cold. Of course John wouldn't have kissed him.

Idiot.

He swung an arm in frustration, knocking some bottles off the shelf. Ugh.

John thinks that they're platonic. They're just flatmates. Sherlock wished these feelings would go away. It hurts to like somebody, he realised. In that instant, he wished he could be a bit more like Mycroft. Mycroft doesn't care, doesn't like, doesn't love. Sherlock felt stupid, humiliated, and upset. Something he rarely felt, especially if it was to do with other humans. This was irrational, he told himself. Stop it. Stop having feelings. Stop...

A picture of John flashed in his mind again.

Stop.

And another. And another. 

Stop...

Sherlock couldn't stop, all he could see behind his eyelids was John. Occasionally Jim would show, and Sherlock would feel a pang of regret mixed with a lust and hunger. James Moriarty was interesting, he was hypnotic, sultry and attractive; Sherlock could no longer deny that. But now there was something about John, cute, small, John with so much more to him than anyone sees. He's brave yet kind, but also has a domineering side, as Sherlock just witnessed. The detective liked both sides of John. He liked the John who could fit under his arm on the sofa when they sit together, and the John that's not afraid of getting his hands dirty or taking charge. 

He liked John.

But Jim...

He liked Jim. 

No, John. 

He...

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, feeling sick again. He cradled his torso as the water turned boiling, steam rising around him. 

Maybe he liked both of them. Together.

No. He liked neither. He definitely didn't like Jim, with his brown eyes or accent or beautiful, perfect body. And he definitely didn't like John, with his strong yet gentle hands or humour or his stature that made Sherlock want to protect him from the horrible world of murder and criminals he'd dragged this man down into.

Absolutely not.

But if he didn't like them, why was he...?

Oh.

Sherlock was hard, thinking about Jim's powerful body moving on top of his. Like on the sofa, but much more... exciting and new. Thinking about John kneeling in front of him, the powerful army soldier giving himself to Sherlock. No barriers.

No. He didn't want to do this again. He'd become a slave to his body since Jim introduced him to it. He had to resist.

Sherlock turned to face the wall, fists clenched. He breathed heavily, pushing Jim and John from his mind. 

And failing.

He imagined himself stood there just as he was, fists balled, as the other men slipped in the shower with him to... play. 

Unclenching his hands, he placed them on the wall, head bowing down and eyes scrunched. He was panting now. The steam from the shower rose around him, clinging to his body. His legs and lower body were slightly stuck out, and he imagined John sitting underneath him, and Jim standing behind him. 

A shock ran through Sherlock's body. Everything hurt so badly. 

He rotated his hips and slowly and rhythmically thrusted them in towards the wall. He moved in time to his daydream, cock dipping in and out of John's mouth while Jim fucked him gently from behind. 

Sherlock looked down. He was leaking slightly, and he hadn't even touched himself. Maybe this wasn't a bad thing. It was so vivid, so...

A challenge. 'Could I cum without touching my dick?', Sherlock thought. He improvised. The detective slathered some shower gel on the wall, and rubbed his leaking cock on the cold tiles, moaning quietly and biting his lip at the friction. He gyrated against the wall, moving every now and then to catch a wave of pleasure. Pressing his forehead against the wall, he grinned then threw his head back, biting his lip more and moaning slightly louder. Jim had turned him into an animal. And he liked it.

It's not going to be enough, Sherlock thought. He was breathing rapidly and shaking, nearly there, but he couldn't to it without someone touching him. Someone like...

He imagined Jim hitting him right there, John licking right on his slit and he bucked against the wall, moaning loud and long.

Sherlock heard a scuffling outside the bathroom door. 

"Sherlock?" 

The detective stilled immediately.

"Sherlock, are you..." he heard an embarrassed coughing, "Are you okay?"

Was he okay? Sherlock could have laughed aloud. He was great, he was hard, he was excited, he was lustful, and he was on the brink of orgasm. He just needed someone to finish him off. 

He looked at the door, shoulders and arms wide and powerful, eyes dark and wild, mouth curled in a smirk of triumph. All cares and worries had gone. He needed to come, and he needed to do it now. The consequences could wait. John would be the one to touch Sherlock and make him come apart in his arms. He could just see it happening.

Sherlock stepped out from the shower, steam rising from him and settled beads of water on his damp skin. He grabbed a small towel and neatly wrapped it around his waist, only just covering his erect cock. Much like he was wrapping a present. He didn't care if John wanted it. Sherlock wanted it, and right now, Sherlock was going to get it. 

He shook as he walked, trying not to let the towel rub him too much or else it would be ruined. He'd come too quickly. 

Sherlock growled like a beast going to catch its prey. This prey wouldn't run away. He'd stay and play until Sherlock was finished. He couldn't think properly, only of John and his dick. So, so hard. He just wants to play. Sherlock grinned again. 

"...Sherlock?" John whispered, unsure of himself.

Sherlock moaned at the sound of John so small and weak. 'I'm okay,' Sherlock thought. 'It's okay.'

He growled at John's sound of surprise.

'Sherlock will make it okay.'

He reached for the doorhandle.


	9. M-me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was nothing compared to what happened next. John was mentally preparing something to say when Sherlock finally emerged, but when he did, all words were lost to John.

John had briefly seen Sherlock sprint into the bathroom, heard the shower start, and it struck him as a little odd. Not that his flatmate had any problems with personal hygiene, of course, but that when Sherlock was wrapped up in a case he didn't usually spare much time for, well, anything, really.

It was quite amusing, though, to see himself stand up to the great detective- military prowess and all. Sherlock should have seen his face when John turned all 'rough, gruff army soldier' on him. The bugger could barely keep his eyes open! He walked off, proud of himself, stopping by the shopping bag to grab one of the red apples before settling on his chair. That is, until he heard a strange noise from the bathroom.

It sounded muffled.

It sounded like...

John didn't want to jump to conclusions; his time spent with Sherlock ensured that. Instead, he raised himself from his sitting position, and moved towards the bathroom door. As he walked, he heard it again, much louder- there was no mistaking what it was. 

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, are you..." He cleared his throat, "are you okay?"

He heard the shower stop, and his flatmate exiting it. Was he going to walk out and see John there, listening in like a pervert? No, no, no, Sherlock, please don't open the door now...

He tried one more time, "... Sherlock?" 

God, he sounded pathetic.

He heard some shuffling and a deep breath being released.

John made a small squeak of surprise and straightened immediately.

Sherlock was going to open the door.

 

* * * * *

 

His fingers were nearly touching the cold metal. They stopped short.

Sherlock's eyes opened a little wider and he looked up, then down, then back to the door. Where John was stood. Only a bit of wood separated them. 

What was he doing? 

What was he going to do? Sherlock had no idea what was going to happen when he opened that door.

He was becoming like... Like the man who could have anything he wants, who commands people and takes from them without care, without feeling. Like Moriarty. His body was out of control. 

No. The detective clenched his jaw, determined that he could control himself. He'd made it this far.

Sherlock looked down. His erection was all but nearly gone, and regret and shame were still settling horribly in the pit of his stomach. His fingers lingered afore the doorhandle. 

He felt sick again. 'These stupid, stupid emotions', the detective thought, defeated. He was tired, exhausted, despite not working on any cases- even abandoning one from his last meeting with Lestrade. 

But he was still attracted to John. And it was infuriating. Sherlock felt like violently protesting against these... these... FEELINGS. Swinging his fists into the door, he also extracted a small yelp from John, whom he had forgotten was standing there. 

'Right', he thought, balling his fists in his hair and exhaling loudly, preparing himself, 'I need to talk to John.' 

Once, again, he reached for the doorhandle.

 

* * * * *

 

The loud THUD on the door was nothing compared to what happened next. John was mentally preparing something to say when Sherlock finally emerged, but when he did, all words were lost to John.

Sherlock opened the door and stood in front of his flatmate, not quite ready to launch into an apology, and still adjusting to the considerably colder temperature outside the bathroom. 

John stared at Sherlock, stood awkwardly in the doorframe, looking like he wanted to say something but didn't know how to. He stared and stared, not looking away once even though he felt his face turning red from invading his friends privacy by staring. He just couldn't help it. 

Sherlocks hair was still damp, clinging to the side of his face and over his eyes. A few curls had dried, though, sticking haphazardly out from his head. His eyes, even covered by dark hair, were shining brightly, looking right at John. His lips were poised, ready to say something. Say anything, John wouldn't mind. The man's eyes travelled down Sherlock's neck, which was craned slightly, covered by damp, dark hair that had seemingly drenched out Sherlock's curls and made them twice as long. Muscles in his shoulders and arms twitched, covered in water, giving them a sheen. Sherlock's midriff wasn't particularly muscly, but was trim and toned, and moved as smoothly as the detective himself with each slight movement. Then a small white towel, which Sherlock was holding up with lithe fingers, that covered Sherlock's... Well. John wanted more than anything for Sherlock to turn around, to see the muscles in his back twist, moist from the shower.

"John."

John eyes snapped up quickly, as he realised he was still watching the towel as it moved on Sherlock's body. 

"I..." Sherlock stood in front of him. 

'Look at him', Sherlock thought, 'he's watching me. All of me. He was looking at the towel. He...'

He prayed silently that John inspecting him up and down wouldn't make him hard again. God, he loved being under John's gaze, it was so...

'No, you must talk to him.'

"I'm sorry, for what you may have heard. I told you the other week that I have not been feeling right lately, or rather, I've been feeling things I shouldn't be," Sherlock moved towards John, in an attempt to be sincere.

Despite his calm demeanour, John was panicking, trying to process what Sherlock was saying but he couldn't because oh Sherlock you're moving towards me and I can't concentrate with you like this please oh please I just want to talk and I can't hear you you look so perfect now and I can't...

They were very close, once again. 

John was still clutching the red apple, unable to say anything in response as Sherlock's body was moving towards his, still wet from the shower. 

"And I know that you're smart enough to realise what I'm feeling- even though I might not do- and how much it is making my body ache. It's exhausting. As well as this..."

The detectives voice was low and gravelly, only just audible even though they were stood facing each other. 

'His body ache?' John thought, 'what does that mean?' Even though, deep down, he already knew. He waited for Sherlock to finish his sentence.

"As well as this, I think you know who these feelings are for." Sherlock looked down at John, who had his mouth open slightly in shock, but the detective knew that John had already worked it out. He saw John's lips move, but no sound left them.

He tried again.

"M..me?" 

Sherlock smiled a little, still standing awkwardly in nothing but a towel. John was well aware of this as well as how close they were stood, turning a shade of red that was threatening to match the apple. There was so much tension between the two. Sherlock looked so perfect, John thought, and before he had a chance to react, closed the gap between them, held John's face in his hands and pressed his lips to John's. The apple fell from John's fingers as he stood, paralyzed, Sherlock against his body and lips. 

He broke the kiss.

No, no, no. John was straight. Absolutely, one hundred per cent...

"Sherlock!" John could barely breathe. He looked at Sherlock, who's pupils were dilated, who's lips were full, who's face was flushed and who's pulse was racing. He looked perfect. 

...One hundred per cent straight. He'd only dated women. Only felt attracted to women. 

Sherlock pulled back, shocked. "I'm sorry. Oh, John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I thought... Sorry, sorry" he apologized profusely.

Never liked men, especially not arrogant, egotistical, crazy, tall, handsome, alluring detectives like... oh, shut up, Sherlock.

John reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down to meet his, and joined their lips again, all thoughts of resistance or doubt fuzzy in his mind. Sherlock took the lead, and was the first to slip a tongue into John's mouth. His flatmate responded well, and they stood there, John's arms around Sherlock's neck, moving their heads and bodies in time to the kiss. They were rhythmic, perfect, with Sherlock pressing his torso, then his hips into John in a hypnotic rhythm, and John taking any part of Sherlock that would press against him. Both picked up the pace, kissing faster and harder, until the detective pushed John back into the wall, his near naked body grinding almost serpentine against the smaller man. 

The sun was high above the building, shining in the window and creating two silhouettes in the hallway that were moving with each other in unison, one slightly taller, with his hands against the wall, and the other one smaller, with his hands on the other's neck.

In the back of his mind, John was vaguely wondering how Sherlock was so good a kisser, and why he'd never seen this part of Sherlock before. He didn't know the man had, well, feelings.

John felt Sherlock's hips against his and he groaned softly. Sherlock looked deep into the other man's eyes, encapturing him, every part of him, all resistance. They paused all movement, using that time to process and take each other in. Sherlock smiled down at John and began kissing again, softer this time. He moved his fingers up to John's face and brushed strands of hair out of the way before resting his fingers on his flatmates jaw, tilting his head up into the kiss. 

John broke the kiss again, staring in amazement up at Sherlock who apparently kept a manual on perfect kissing in that mind palace of his. The detective shifted his weight back and John stepped forward so he was no longer against the wall. They stood, holding each other and looking at their entwined shadows for a while. Sherlock moved his head down on John's shoulder, pressing his lips against his neck and mouthing slowly, stuck between a kiss and a whisper of 'thank you, John'. 

They stood back, both flustered but somehow less awkward than before the kiss, which John wasn't expecting. God, Sherlock was beautiful. And still nearly naked, he realised. Sherlock must have noticed too because his hands shot to his towel, and he coughed in embarrassment. 

"You should, uh," John started, "probably, uh, get changed or, um..." He cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely to Sherlock's torso and towel-region. 

"Right, ah, yes. Of course, um, I'll just go and... get some clothes and, uh..." 

They both shifted again, realising in full clarity what just happened. 

Sherlock looked down and turned towards his room, a smile of triumph working its way onto his face. He'd kissed John. 

"Sherlock" 

He spun slowly to face his flatmate. John looked stern. Oh, God, he'd messed up. 

John stepped towards him. 

He'd messed up. 

The smaller man stopped in front of Sherlock, who twitched, not knowing what to expect. 

John held his gaze, face unmoving. He sighed. 

"Can I kiss you again?" 

A sweet, short, kiss as they joined lips again and held each other, John running his hand up Sherlock's arm to the base of his neck, taking in every scent, taste and sensation. 

John could get used to this, perhaps. He turned away, picking up the red apple that still shone on the floor in the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feel when you promise more chapters but never deliver and give your readers a nice bit of torture. This shit is unplanned and unorganized but hey you'll get a lovely heart attack when I next update


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